


Thirty Pieces of Silver

by sara_no_h



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, M/M, Minor Character Death, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Post-His Last Vow, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-14
Updated: 2014-01-14
Packaged: 2018-01-08 17:47:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1135604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sara_no_h/pseuds/sara_no_h
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post “His Last Vow” and spoilers for the whole of Sherlock Series 3. </p><p>“Someone in this room is going to betray Sherlock Holmes,” Moriarty said, never breaking eye contact with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thirty Pieces of Silver

**Author's Note:**

> No real romantic relationships at this point. If you squint you can definitely see love or harassment because it's Jim Moriarty we're talking about here.

Sherlock's head shot up from its lull and everything spun.

Senses come back to him sluggishly. His mouth was covered, cloth with a distant sweet smell. Chloroform.

Behind him there was a sound. Someone was in the room with him.

Although Sherlock couldn’t see them, he felt the air shift. Dust particles moving with more determination in the rays of sunlight that cascaded from the broken skylight above him. The air was heavy with carbon so more than one body. Behind him and to his right there was an inhale of breath, but muffled. Beneath a cloth than. Directly behind and slightly to his left a rubber trainer scraped the concrete floor and disturbed pebbles of rubble. To his immediate left a violent jerk and a scrap of wood. There was a moment and he felt soft shifting of another, not trying to escape but settling.

Four people. 

The smell of mold assaulted his senses next. It was an abandon factory of sorts, metal covering concrete, and piping coming into his view. It was quite, not even a drip of water to be heard. He looked closer, tried to focus and connect the discolored wall to an exact date, an owner, a style…

He blinked as facts scrambled to form before his eyes before they fell apart.

 _It_ was not coming to him.

His eyes settled on the flurry of dust descending, feeling it now; his skin was looser, his teeth seemed to fill his mouth, but most of all his mind; it was quite. The need had slowed. His heartbeat was measured; breath was not trying to rapidly escape his lungs as fear settled like a sold weight in his gut.

He was high.

Drugged. Obviously heroin but judging by the slowing of his heart and fatigue it was mixed with something stronger. It was hard to tell. There was a warmth that was spreading across his chest and neck. He knew the feeling of a perfect rush, the kind that did not come with the work, but from the needle.

Someone had known just how much to give him. To make him clouded and to muffle his observation, not enough to kill, but definitely enough to inebriate. He was upright, not in danger of chocking on spatial or vomit.

Planned.

Sherlock moved, the wood beneath him creaking, feeling the pull of the handcuffs at his wrists and ankles. He could try and break the chair by falling over, the left arm was unsecured and maybe with enough force he could get his hand free.

He stilled, catching the humming that was growing louder.

Behind him the four moved restlessly, hearing the approach as well.

Steps. Not heels. Leather flats that had been worn before.

A measured constant. Light. Could be a female but statistically he was more likely to be kidnapped and placed in an abandon building by a male adversary.

There was a smothered cry of shock that was distinctively Molly’s. To his right a jerk and cursing shout was John’s. If John was here then Mary would certainly be here as well. But the forth…

Before the thought could fully register the scarping of wood over concrete filled the open space. It was followed by a voice, saturated in false charm, “I guess the chloroform wore off.”

Jim Moriarty.

The dead man appareled before him, black suite immaculate. The wood strained as Moriarty straddling it, setting his palms beneath his chin. His smile was huge and his eyes danced in the shifting sun, “Oh, how I’ve missed _you_ , Sherlock. Tell me, did you miss _me_?” He looked up at the other under his lashes, voice playing coy, “Nevermind." He paused, eyes devouring Sherlock's body. "I know you have.”

Sherlock stared, unable to move, certain if he blinked hard enough he would be able to wake from this hell.

He was alive. _How was he alive?_

Jim reached out, warm fingers causing Sherlock to flinch as they settled at his pulse. Withdrawing his hand Moriarty leaned forward, causing the chair to creak at the occupants shifting weight. Sherlock slumped back, placing distance between them, face a blank mask.

Undeterred by the other Moriarty smiled, “Did you like that? My little performance? I certainly enjoyed yours.” He reached out and pulled the blue scarf from Sherlock’s neck, draping it over his own but not before breathing in the smell, “I like it when we break all those hearts,” he whispered. Brown eyes darted over Sherlock’s right shoulder before returning to the detective.

“I have to ask, dose it not get boring? Solving your little crimes? Don’t you ever want something more? No, not a needle. A high is lovely, but have you ever wanted it to be supplementary? A constant feeling of adrenalin. Of being above it all.” His voice was a caress. “You should join me, Sherlock. I can picture it now. A world at our feet, playing the game from here to California and back to Singapore. You and I together in this big bad world...” He trailed off, face far too close for the other man’s liking.

The sarcastic laugh was struck in his throat, causing Sherlock to jolt forward, eyes crinkling. He settled back into his indifferent façade as the consulting criminal chuckled.

Sherlock watched as the other moved closer; Moriarty’s mouth opened but the screech of a door caused the man to take pause. The sounds of heels clinked over the concrete assaulted Sherlock’s senses. He knew that stride, had heard those heels against wood floors.

She was beautiful as she appeared. The sunlight played in her dark hair and he was reminded of how it had looked fanned across his white pillow sheets. Janine’s eyes looked to Sherlock and bile brushed the back of his throat. She did not seem worried about the five people strapped down in an abandon factory.

She blinked before turning to Moriarty. The criminal smiled, glass crunching as he stands. He slithered closer to her, sliding his hands deep into his trouser pockets. 

He scraped his foot along the glass. “How’s the cottage.”

She stilled. “I gave you what you wanted. Give me what I need.”

Jim let out a noise of curiosity. “I really enjoyed your stories to the papers,” he said, coming to stand before her.

Moriarty's back was to him but Sherlock could still see Janine’s face, hard and undisturbed. She raised her palm, waiting. Suddenly it clicked; she’d dealt with Moriarty before.

Gliding his hand from the pocket he presented her with a silver flash drive before gently placing it into her palm. As she made to move away he grasper her hand, leaning closer. “Thank you for everything, my dear.” His lips brushing Janine’s cheek causing her to still.

Without warning she jerked, blood seeping from the hole at the jugular. Bullet wound. There was scuffling behind him, gasps and cries of disbelief but Sherlock could only stare. It had been silent. Precise. There had been no red light, no indications at all. He could only watch as she crumpled to the floor. Breathing shallow until it ceased all together.

A pang of fear shot through Sherlock, but his heart could not elevate even if he wanted it too. He stared at the body, and felt his shoulders sagging as the cloud of numbness settled into his muscles.

Sharp shooter.

He could not take his eyes off of her, not until Moriarty was once again before him. The wooden chair creaked and that face loomed far too close. Sherlock smelled the iron before he saw it, dotted along the pale neck and throat of the mad man before him.

“All those little problems.” He trailed off, scratching at his check, smearing red liquid near his mouth and jaw. Sharp eyes locked with the detective's. Moriarty wore the remnants of blood with an ignorance that could only be found in a predator.

His voice was low. “Something’s going to happen, Sherlock.”

The handcuffs shifted as Sherlock's fist's clenched, willing himself not to turn away. He bit the cloth that had been shoved into his mouth.

“You see, I know what’s going too happened, I’ve already set it in motion. Pushed the restart button.” He leaned close, breath ghosting over Sherlock’s ear as the detective gazed at the wall, face impassive to the assault. “I’ve mapped it out and played it over and over and over again.” Moriarty paused, brushing his cold hand to the detectives jaw, “I’ve become impatient.”

Leaning back, Jim stood, coming to stand at Sherlock’s peripheral. The mad man placed a hand over Sherlock's covered shoulder. “I can hear them now.” His voice taking on a higher note, mocking. “Dear Jim, take me away, I can’t bear to stay here anymore.” He chuckled, circling to stand in front of Sherlock. “Someone in this room is going to betray Sherlock Holmes.” Moriarty said, never breaking eye contact from him.

Sherlock stilled, feeling his cheek itch but ignored it; instead he watched those brown eyes glitter in amusement. He tried to suppress the shudder that passed through him.

Jim rounded, coming to stand before the other occupants, “All this person has to do is tell me everything they know about Sherlock Holmes and thirty pieces of silver later you’ll be skipping town, new identity and life set.”

Hands tugged off the gag causing Sherlock to gasp as he was suddenly forced back, wood creaking dangerously as the two front legs teetered mid air. Moriarty looked down at him from above, smiling hungrily. “So how do you feel about my offer now, sexy?”

“I’d rather you drop the chair back and watch me asphyxiate on my own vomit.”

Moriarty sighed. “Boring.”

With a remarkable use of strength Jim whipped the chair around, settling it onto the four legs. Sherlock was facing the other occupants now. Eyes wide he took in their similar bounds. Molly, Lestrade, Mary, and John faced him, facial expression ranging from rage to utter confusion and terror.

Before he could focus on them Moriarty leaned close, lips grazing his ear. “Will it be the Detective Inspector wanting out from under the watchful eye of big brother?” He hummed.“Oh, how about the mousy girl from the mortuary? The one who loves you. No? The doctor’s wife? I mean, she’s done it before, maybe second times the charm, right?”

Sherlock jerked away, locking eyes with Moriarty, trying to focus and ignore the others. He could not allow emotions to cloud him, not now, not when the other was giving him information. Valuable information to dissect and observe.

Moriarty’s smile was enormous, his voice rising on every word. “Can it be Johnny Boy? I really want it to be him, can it be him?” He looked at the man in question, receiving a heated glare in response.

Undisturbed Moriarty turned back to Sherlock, voice thoughtful. “I'm curious to see if that would break you.”

Sherlock swallowed, uncharacteristically silent as he watched the criminal, mind sluggishly trying to form observations, recording every word and slithering motion. He watched as the other grasped the scarf, using the end to wipe his face clean. Jim came to stand before the other, causing Sherlock to tilt his head back, not willing to be the first to break eye contact. “My offer still stand.”

“Go to hell,” Sherlock whispered.

“I was there but you never joined me. “ Moriarty smiled, sliding the scarf off and wiped the spot of drying blood from Sherlock’s cheek before draping it back over the detective’s shoulders. “So I came looking.”

Sherlock clenched his jaw, feeling the drowsiness building. He tried to ignore it, willing his adrenaline to override it. _Focus._

The air particles whirled as Moriarty moved away.

Gasping Sherlock willed the white lights at his peripheral to dissipate. Moriarty's face shimmered and he was suddenly looking at the retreating back of a black suit. The four gaged faces became blurry. He squinted, eyes darting down to catch a smear of red on blue. Janine’s blood.

“Ciao, Sherlock Holmes.”

There was movement, muffled voices crying out and the creaking of body's on old wood chairs. He ignored them and tried to hone in on the sound of worn leather flats hitting the concrete. They became faint, but then so was the room. It was tilting and he could feel it pulse or was that his own? It was a slow even thing before the world went black.  

 


End file.
